


I Am Yours

by Jimlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John Watson, Death Threats, Do NOT Read past Chapter 6 if you hate Jim being rapey, Dom Irene Adler, Dom Moriarty, Domestic Violence, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson is a Bit Not Good When Angry, John Watson is angry, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Games, Mindfuck, Moriarty & Watson fight over Sherlock, Moriarty is Alive, Moriarty is charming, Possessive Moriarty, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Sexual Abuse, Sherlock in Love, Sherlock is a Damsel in Distress, Sherlock is a sub, Stalker Jim Moriarty, Stockholm Syndrome, Threats of Violence, Triggers, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-20 08:26:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 12,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5998783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlock/pseuds/Jimlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds that it's not as easy to answer Moriarty's demands, or play his mind games, while still deeply under the influence of his OD. Also, John Hamish Watson has had quite enough. There will be no running 'round or dancing for one James Moriarty, not this time.</p><p>Sherlock still doesn't know how to check his own texts. And his time is rapidly running out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock couldn’t think nearly as well through the muddle of his drug cocktail as he had forcefully laid claim. His trip to Baker Street felt nightmarishly unreal. 

Turning to John, who sat beside him, Sherlock attempted to scrutinize his features. The man looked tired and a bit unpredictable. Unpredictable was good. If Moriarty were in fact to show up, he might need the backup. If, however, was a large word…

His phone began to buzz loudly in his pocket and chime to the tune of the irascible Stayin’ Alive. When had his phone returned to his pocket? Sherlock growled briefly at the inability to sort whether Mary’s escapade on his phone had actually occurred or whether his phone had never left his right pocket. And anyway, he had certainly left it on the dash beside him aboard the Cessna.

John’s voice creaked into function. “Sher-Sherlock. Who- who is that?”

“Get it for me,” he snarled, incapable in every sense of the word. When the bland, tan seat in front of you dances to the beat of a concerto, and has a smile which consistently morphs, getting one’s phone from one’s pocket is simply not an option. Perhaps the phone isn’t even there. Only John will know.

John huffs but snappishly whisks the phone out of Sherlock’s pocket and makes short work of screaming bloody murder.

“What.” Sherlock feels that life is no longer fair. 

Taking deep gulps of air, John extends the phone to him, looking positively pallid. “I can’t- it’s him. HIM. He’s not dead, you PRICK! He’s texting you!”

With a savage groan of wrath, Sherlock manages to capture his phone before John drops it. He glares at the screen. Unknown sender. Obviously James from the short, pointed messages.

_You owe me a visit, my dear._

_Ask for M at the Savoy, and don't be late._

_You have one hour._

_-JM_

Now that he sees the invitation is to a hotel, he’s not so pleased that John knows what is likely to be highly specific intelligence, too.

“John,” he says, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I need to get here, to the Savoy. At precisely one hour from exactly when James sent this to me. And I can’t look like this. Help.”

“What about Mycroft’s opinion, you bloody dullard? Haven’t you thought that this is DEFINITELY a trap?”

Sherlock twists his neck till his rage filled eyes appraise John of his answer. “You can’t tell him. And you had better not tell Mary. Although, John, this is an unknown sender, and yet this number has a programmed ringtone which I did not set, leading me to question whether it is your wife who-”

John’s eyes began to bug out, in a hideously frantic way that Sherlock instantly regrets, the same way he regrets ever telling John that Mary shot him.


	2. Chapter 2

“What are you doing?” John hissed, craning his neck to glare at Sherlock in the mirror.

Sherlock had never liked people in his bathroom. Particularly when still somewhat high. This was compounded by the fact he was easing the dark rings below his eyes with a little tinted skin salve- just enough to even out his complexion and possibly, keep Moriarty from noticing… how wrecked he was, both physically and mentally, at this particular moment.

John’s eyes visibly popped, following Sherlock’s deft, slender forefinger as it dabbed the crease below his eye. “Serious? MAKEUP?” Before Sherlock could muster any sort of response, his friend had swung on his heel, grinding it into the floor dramatically, and thrown his hands in the air. “Look, we have TEN MINUTES, wanker, according to your bloody schedule, and you are APPLYING FECKING POWDER TO YOUR FACE? Why don’t you just put some lipstick on and be done with it, before you go and dance with your VERY GAY, MURDEROUS-”

Sherlock’s knuckles clenched the counter to the point of pain. He couldn’t even remotely feel them. Disconcerting. The ground was swaying. Like a boat. Was he at sea?

The tirade was hard to comprehend. It was there, as loud, obnoxious and necessary as its initiator, but somehow, he couldn’t deal with it. He needed to finish the other eye too.

John’s hand knocked the tube off the sink and then seized his hair, his finely crafted, labored over hair- and dragged him down to the level of the faucet. The spray of water enveloped his face with ominous ease and the next thing he knew, John had rubbed a towel rudely over his features. Opening his eyes, mouth pinched in a taut, silent gasp, he was rewarded with the absurd sight of John practically leaning into his arse, hand still brutally tangled up in his hair, and holding him down. John’s cheeks were flushed, and Sherlock watched his own face darken from chafed ruddiness to a deep, scarlet hue. He felt naked; exposed, and inescapably vulnerable. If John were a lower order of human and capable of violating him, in this moment he would not even have the will to resist.

With impeccable timing, John’s phone began to chime a dull tune. Not Moriarty’s signature ringtone. Mycroft’s.

Without skipping a beat, John pulled his phone from his pocket and hurled it at the wall. It shattered. The gasp that had been silent on Sherlock’s lips came. He leaned forward, panting, unable to handle John’s pressure and proximity any longer. If this went on much longer, John would see that his pupils were blown wide.

“John,” Sherlock said. It was nearly a sob, a small noise swallowed up by the evil, rather dirty sink. “I can’t. Let me up.”

“Can’t what?” John whispered, mouth forming a grimace. “Can’t fight me? I know. That’s why it won’t be your fault that you miss your meeting with HIM. I’m going to make sure he understands. No. He’s not taking you.” His teeth gleamed in the dying light from the window, somehow catching more ambience than they ought. Like daggers in the gloom. Sherlock felt as though he was swooning. John, the wolf, against The Spider, keeping him here against his will? Too good to be true. Utterly, wretchedly inconvenient.

“In fact,” John continued, eyes shifting to stare solidly at Sherlock’s in the mirror, “I will kill you before you go back to him. So don’t. Stop thinking about leaving. You’re not. Going. Anywhere.”

Tongue twisting, Sherlock collapsed into the sink. He couldn’t even remotely address the improbable thought of John hurting him. Actually hurting him, however, seemed to be on the menu tonight. John’s hand wrenched him to a semblance of their previous staring contest in the mirror with something resembling fiery vigour.

Sherlock licked his lips. They seemed to be peakier, and redder, than usual. John, if he was actually observing, was certainly SEEING his massively dilated pupils, since he was staring directly into them. He had never seen John’s mouth carved into a firmer, more complex line.

“Let me go.” Sherlock’s lips mimed the words clumsily. He sounded (to his own ears) frightened. Frightened of John? Frightened of the consequence of disobeying Moriarty? Or frightened of his reaction to John’s steadily increasing pressure on his thigh and arse with that rock hard, soldier body of his?

John grinned back. “No.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a really shit fighter sometimes. Unfortunately for John, all he needs is his wits.

If there had been any chance of arriving at the Savoy within a precise hour of receiving Moriarty's texts, Sherlock Holmes would have. As it was, he was lying face-down on the couch, sulking and heaving, and considering whether asphyxiation from frustration was possible. No, it was not. But John's hand on his neck was not altogether friendly after their last bout of something John had referred to as 'play-fighting'. His tender skin was itching beneath the rough calluses of the hand so treacherously poised to pin him down again, should he so much as _twitch._

"This is unpleasant, and uncomfortable to the extreme." Sherlock's nails dug into his palms. "Has it occurred to you that he mi-"

"-not have any idea who is he reckoning with," John retorted. "In this case, me. And I will not, I swear to god, sit by, and bloody WATCH, as my very best friend-"

"Oh, is that what I am, is that why you're practically sitting-"

"-goes gallivanting off to his very foolish death!" John's hand was shaking. Adrenaline. Interesting. No. Not adrenaline, anger.

"John, while I very much appreciate the sentiment-"

"Shut." John was quivering. "Up."

Sherlock sucked the blood from his lip into his mouth and considered his available options. Riling John up was a phenomenal way to possibly accrue more bruises. It also could allow the opportunity to escape. If John accidentally injured him, he would be far more likely to underestimate his abilities...

"Fine." Adopting a snarl of infinite scorn, Sherlock twisted his face and stared John coolly in the eye. "I am persuaded by your increasingly infantile display of aggressive behavior, clearly inherited from your Neanderthal-inherited traits of male machismo and idiocy, that-"

John's eyes became poisonous. Their lethality nearly induced a shudder, but Sherlock could not afford to display fear.

"-you are in love with me."

John's mouth dropped. His eyes turned hollow and a bit empty.

"Whether you are aware of it or not," Sherlock said, curtly, "all your behavior points to dominant desires of the relational variety. While I'm flattered, John, I can assure you that the one thing I-"

"Wanker!" John exploded, suddenly coming to life in a surge of motion. His hand clenched around Sherlock's neck, completely cutting off any air supply therefrom. With a smooth flick of his wrist, he had whipped Sherlock bodily from the couch and thrown him across the room.

Sherlock hit the wall and fell, lopsided, in utter ruin over the sitting room table. Sparks swam before his eyes. This was not as bad as Serbia, but it was oddly difficult to think. If he ran now, John would give chase. He would not even make it to the foot of the stairs, and if they tumbled, he might sustain crippling injury.

Best to pass out, then.

Doing his level best to ignore John's shouting- it was something to the effect that this was all a clever plot to wind him up, and look, you succeeded, wanker! -Sherlock gave a little sigh and _expired_ neatly over the cluttered tabletop. His mouth dragged open against the dish he'd fallen into as he loosely slid off and onto the floor, allowing his limbs to turn to jelly.

Silence. John had stopped in the midst of a yell. He heard a hysteric, entirely expected sob from the other side of the room. Then John running, running- _he was looking for Sherlock's phone. Because his was ruined and he was going to call for-_

Sherlock nearly smiled. His phone was in the kitchen. Clattering commenced within it. As John's panicked voice began barking into the air, he was already silently slipping out of the flat.

Too bad, John. The bird has flown.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just in time to be late.

Thirty minutes late, and somewhat dizzy, Sherlock nearly leapt from the cab to the grand entrance of the Savoy Hotel. His appearance was certainly lacking in regards to perfection, but there was no way he could hide the fact he'd been rudely used from his secondary nemesis. So why try?

The escort to his room did not blanch at his appearance; an odd fact which presumably meant the escort was on The Spider's payroll and would also not blanch at bleaching his blood from the carpet of whichever room he was going to, should the need arise.

Hopefully that wouldn't happen. But you never knew when or where you might meet your match. Death stalked the wise at every corner; it was the capacity to predict it that allowed near-total elusion of its grasp. And currently, something in the pit of his stomach was turning, twisting inside out. Learning to trust one's physical sensations in the face of danger was something akin to a direct line to one's subconscious.

Too many factors, too little time to sort them. What if John came? What if Sherlock had to choose between two people bent on killing each other? If John was- no, he'd have been whisked away by Mycroft. His call could simply not have been ignored.

As he stood before the door, taking a last breath, Sherlock's final thought was how rude it was of Mycroft to simply sit there and watch John toss him about like a ragdoll without lifting a finger. Surveillance be damned if it never was put to actual usage.

He hadn't even gotten to elucidating the finer reasons of why he was meeting James here, in this breathtaking hotel. It was infuriating.

The escort smiled at him cheerily and rapped on the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is based on a personal experience, so I know it's actually possible. (When it happened to me, there was, alas, no Moriarty. Shame.)

The door opened. Standing in the exact middle of the doorway was James Moriarty. Not dead. _Not dead._ Involuntarily, Sherlock felt his chest tighten. His throat constricted. He was floating. His arms ached; his head spun, and his mouth was dry. It was as though all the oxygen had vanished.

Moriarty took a slow, measured step forward. His large brown eyes raked all the way down to Sherlock's toes, then back up, widening. A soft intake of breath and he was suddenly there; intruding on Sherlock's space as though it didn't exist. His hand, gentle and soft as a snake's caress, cupped one side of his prey's face.

"What happened?"

Sherlock's knees gave way. He buckled, falling- more like sprawling- headfirst into the carpet. How totally dignified! Feeling his cheeks burn, he shied away as The Spider walked into his line of vision. Those shoes had definitely cost a fortune. Not a speck on the trousers. _A speck._ Shimmery, near silken fabric of the finest weave; a light grey with undertones of gossamer purple.

Feeling horrendously underdressed and outmaneuvered, he dragged himself to his knees. His chest was heaving, but he couldn't get air. This was, without a doubt, electrically-induced imbalance of the coronary muscle. Of all things, he could barely believe his enemy was witnessing him in the throes of a heart attack. It should have been distressingly obvious! Why hadn't he done anything yet? If he didn't, Sherlock could drop unconscious, or worse, dead.

"It's all in your head, Sherlock," Moriarty whispered, staring down placatingly with his impossibly large eyes. He closed them for one moment. What luxuriously long lashes. "You can end your heart attack any time it so pleases you. All you must do is focus on me. Accept me as a necessary feature of your life."

Without opening his eyes, Moriarty moved forward. Sherlock's heart was racing, trying to exit his chest cavity. Before he could react, Moriarty had once again laid hand to his face. Gentle, almost rudely so. Enemies are not _gentle._ What, precisely, was he implying, or did he mean by it?

His thumb brushed Sherlock's torn lower lip in the most distracting manner. "Close your eyes, Sherlock. This will be so much easier if you can't see me. The mind trusts what it cannot see over what it can. Think of the womb. And you _must trust me."_

Oh. Trust him, and thus release the tension, thereby destroying the pent up terror causing the coronary defect to occur. How childishly simple.

Head swimming, Sherlock let his lashes droop. A wave of nausea swept over his body. Moriarty's hand had curled around his chin and was possibly the softest thing that had ever touched him in this manner. He could barely handle the lack of danger, which was obviously there, but at the moment inaccessibly masked, like a veil over the devil's face.

Trust the devil. Surrender to his touch.

"Good," Moriarty breathed, "Very, very good, Sherlock. You're such a good little boy. Clever."

No air. Through his nearly-closed lashes, Sherlock watched Moriarty's shoes becoming dancing reflections of insanity. Why was the ground moving and flickering? He was far away. Not here, not actually. Had to be a dream.

"Now slow your heart," Moriarty whispered. His voice was somehow very close. Sherlock could feel breath on his ear, warm- sharply sweet smelling, like wintergreen. "Put your hand over your heart and slow. It. Down."

This was not hard to do. At least Moriarty knew what he needed to do. Sherlock could do this. He did. His hand was over his heart now, feeling every vibrating, mis-matched impulse running through the organ. How ridiculous. He needed it to simply function as normal.

"Quiet," Moriarty said in his ear. "Show me what you can do. Honey, you can do this, I know you can."

Like a balm, he could feel the other man's presence soaking into his broken psyche. It wasn't hard to surrender. It was right.

With an orgasmic sigh, he felt his heart shift back to a far more normal rhythmic pulse. It was slowing down. It, he would be fine. He sucked greedily at the air, shuddering. This was beyond his comprehension. Had it happened?

Moriarty's mouth laved his cheek, having imperceptibly found its way there. The man's tongue felt oddly soothing against the scrapes left by John's rather vindictive toweling and shoving. Giving up the struggle of staying erect on his knees, Sherlock gracefully fell into the arms of his singular arch nemesis. He was breathing again. Time to get back into his head.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ownership involves management.

It felt like being deep underwater. Sherlock was lying on a garishly nice, £10,000 couch, stripped down to his snug black silk boxers, with an EKG attached to his chest, and far too much medicine in his veins. What he'd been given he was still struggling to comprehend. Clearly, it was not in the usual arsenal of pharmacology available to the masses. Definitely superior. Hopefully not dangerous. The woman currently topping off the seventh vial of blood drawn from his arm had a certain air of wealthy, prestigious training about her which had definite origin in America. Her blond hair and nose job were testament to the latter, although she hadn't spoken the entire five minutes she had been in the room.

Moriarty circled the couch yet again, his eyes narrowed to slits. His silence was becoming frustrating. How could he possibly specify what he wanted without saying a word? He'd only been on his phone for 5 seconds and yet. One would think that £1,000,000 of medical care was simply tagging along at his heels, snapping for the opportunity to be used.

Clearly, it would be Sherlock who broke the silence. His voice sounded husky. "Did you anticipate _actually_ burning the heart out of me, or do your powers of control extend to the realms of telepathy?"

That drew forth merely a twitch of Jim's left eyebrow upwards. Jim paused and swung toward him, expression carven in stone. His dark eyes festered with intensity.

Sherlock scowled, feeling mawkishly out of depth. This was ridiculous! He could barely even lift his arms. A thick fog was settling into his mind and obscuring logical actions which could be taken. It would be a pity if he simply dozed off under the unending glare of The Spider. And it would be entirely against his will.

Jim's mouth contorted in a sneer. "Make no mistake, Holmes. I own you."

Feeling his face darken with blood, Sherlock gasped in annoyance. "Seriously? I thought romance was below you. Or is everyone going soft in the head now? Or did you mean it in a cruel way? Do you intend to make me _suffer?"_

Jim's eyes scrunched up in a laugh. He shook his head, drawing closer. He was leaning over the edge of the couch now, looming into Sherlock's space and literally taking all of it up with his loathsomely handsome face.

"No no," he giggled, almost breathlessly. "How dramatic of you. Did you know, I just had you shot up with £20,000 per milligram of illegal medicine, inaccessible to the rank and file of this entire continent. No, I own you. Ownership involves management. I would hate to see my assets ruined because of their own headstrong idiocy."

Blanching, Sherlock gazed upward. Put that way, it did rather sound as though Jim owned him. He was lying entirely defenseless in his enemy's lair, 'shot-up' with a fortune in medicine clearly meant to salvage his heart, and he hadn't even noticed at which point he'd lost his clothing. Did his pain show on his face?

"Now," Jim tutted, laying a finger across Sherlock's lips, "you owe _me._ No no, go to sleep. Don't _talk. Talking's boring."_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for elements of rape.

This could not be real. Sherlock's drifting conscious screamed that he was definitely still dreaming. There was no such place; a mirrored box, whose manifold panes projected reflection into infinity. And yet, despite the fact he couldn't identify a source of light, the walls of mirrored glass shone brightly with a white, dreamy fluorescence.

Crawling forward on hands and knees, he stared downward at his reflection. His mouth opened, agape with shock. Dark, crimson lipstick adorned his lips. It was sticky when he put a finger to it. Like blood.

Wrong. It _was_ blood.

"That's Johnny's blood." Moriarty's voice was close overhead. And entirely disembodied. Sherlock felt his body turn to ice. No, no. A dream. If Moriarty were actually here, he'd be visible. Yet, his voice had emanated downward from a location precisely located over Sherlock's shoulder.

With a shiver of frustration, Sherlock scanned his own reflection for more clues. His face was drained of color; stark white didn't suit him, and this awful lighting brought every defect of his face into high, crisp resolution. There were all the scrapes left by John- and yes, his lip was still split. His hair had certainly seen better moments. Starting on his left shoulder, a massive, blue bruise trailed its way down to his boxers. He must have hit the wall hard.

"Should I have applied some fecking powder to cover your pretty little cuts and scrapes?" the voice cooed. He heard the man's feet creak briefly beside him.

Utterly impossible. "You weren't there," Sherlock muttered to himself. "You don't know that. You _don't_ have any bugs in my house. I've checked."

Moriarty's voice nearly cackled. "Over and over again, yes. No, you're right, love. I simply know."

"I'm dreaming," Sherlock stated, casually rocking back onto his knees. He scanned the air where Moriarty ought to be. Nothing. It was just _air._

"Is it?" Laughter. "Is it a dream, Sherly? You think this is beyond me? But your _subconscious_ doesn't." The last word rang, vindictive, against the gleaming walls of the trap.

Getting to his feet, Sherlock stalked to the wall and rapped on it. How boring, it was just normal glass. Perhaps he could break it.

"I wouldn't do that," Moriarty sneered. The ghostly voice was directly behind him now. He spun, frightened. No, nothing! There was nothing. He swung his arm through the air. Still air. And endless reflections of his own insanity.

The temperature was dropping. Below his feet, the spotless glass felt like ice. What an immediate change. He gasped with surprise. Quickly, it was more than he could bear. He huddled into himself, dropping to a fetal sort of squat and hugging his knees.

"You're messing with me," Sherlock said. His voice held a timbre of pleading. If this was a dream, he felt free to beg. "I don't like the cold. How would you know that?"

"Nobody likes the cold, Sherlock..." Far away, now. Barely even in the room. Just an echo.

Leaping to his feet, Sherlock dashed to the other side. He put his hands on the frozen panes. "Don't leave me! Help! I'm going to freeze to death!"

Nothing. No answering retort, no sing-song taunt. Just his own face, distorted by worry, in a rapidly dimming room of glass. His lips were frozen and crusted in the vicious liquid. He drew his fingers away from the wall, staring. No fingerprints. The dusk had now given way to a gloomy night. He could barely distinguish his own features.

"I'm so cold," Sherlock whimpered, hugging himself.

A tingling warmth began on his uninjured shoulder. Like a handprint. The air behind him was nearly quivering with presence. Yet he could see in every direction that there was _nothing._

Like an ache, pleasure lanced down his member. It wasn't as though he'd touched it. Nobody had. Yet, his blood was pooling there, swelling it proudly. Dipping his eyes to his own crotch in the reflection, Sherlock watched his erection grow. An autonomous reaction to various harsh stimuli?

Deeply perturbed, he fought the urge to shake himself. The warm touch on his shoulder was soothing. And now there was a sensation of actual touch; directly on his butt, like fingers sliding between his cheeks toward his anus. It was not fair. There _wasn't anything there. His boxers hadn't moved at all._

The disembodied fingers slipped smoothly into him. Sherlock gasped for air, shuddering. No no no, it was not _fair._

Warmth, like hips pressing him from behind. He was about to be raped by a ghost.

"Please," Sherlock whispered, feeling faint. He could barely move. As though all will to resist had left him. Every limb felt glued into place, frozen in the face of fear. "No. No please. I don't want this."

He could feel the ghost's member, now, pressing the rim of his hole. And then suddenly, it was inside him, sheathing itself all the way to the hilt. He'd felt only brief pain. But now he was burning with warmth, flushing with shame. His skin crawled and his body stiffened to no effect.

Like butter, the thing eased in and out of him, creating a plethora of rich sensations. _Impossible,_ his mind screamed. He hadn't moved. His posture alone made the sensations utterly fantastical- it had to be in his head!

Panic crested over him like a wave. He broke the mental headlock and screamed, snapping out of his rigid position. Flinging himself backward against the wall, Sherlock heaved the icy air. The sensations were gone now, weren't they?

"Is that it?" Moriarty's voice rang out unexpectedly from across the room. "You dirty boy, is that what you want me to do to you? Look, you're positively spilling all over yourself, and I haven't even laid a finger on you!"

And there, he was, standing in the gloom. The Spider.

The lights came up in a blink to their former blinding intensity. Moriarty's mouth curved into a feral snarl. His teeth were coated in blood.

Sherlock fainted neatly in a sprawl onto the chill surface. It wasn't artifice.


	8. Chapter 8

Coming to with a start, Sherlock gazed at the crenellated, creamy ceiling overhead. His member was still swollen with blood and raging to be free of-

No, there was a hand wrapped around it. No boxers at all.

Sherlock caught his breath and squeezed his eyes shut again. He was back on the couch. The posh one. No EKG. Just a hand, wrapped warmly about his cock. He didn't want to know. It was too much.

Feeling his throat close up, Sherlock held back a sob. The movement pained his bruised neck. Crying would hurt, in that god-awful way that meant shame and humiliation.

"Why the tears, Sherly?" a familiar voice murmured, kindly enough. The Irish accent was darkly amusing. Of course the hand belonged to _him._

"I had. A bad dream," Sherlock said, voice creaking dangerously close to a moan.

The thumb massaged his frenulum in a convivial manner. His cock twitched, and so did he.

"Is it you," Sherlock managed, miserably. "Are you- _masturbating-_ me?"

Moriarty huffed indignantly, yet continued his unseen ministrations. "Of course not!"

He opened his eyes and glared down his bare chest. The criminal was not even there. His cock was dripping, red and swollen, on its own.

Like a ton of bricks had hit him, Sherlock felt the air exit his chest cavity. He watched dumbly as the skin of his cock rippled. The hand was still rubbing him. _The invisible hand._

Craning his head, he stared wildly about. Nobody was here. He was lying nude in an empty hotel room, having a conversation _with a ghost._

With an electrified cry of terror, Sherlock Holmes orgasmed twice, painting his stomach with white liquid, and coating the nonexistent hand. Invisible fingers were painted in his sperm and held aloft.

Then, like a bizarre hologram effect, he saw it; the edge of the invisible being. A repeated quiver, a line in the air like a mirage or the effect of a candle flame. Not invisible. Simply not visible.

"You're there!" He was screeching, despite himself; every hair on end, every nerve primed to accept the impossible.

As if he had flicked from reality to a dream, and back again, he saw Moriarty's body materialize precisely where the ghost had been; seated on the couch, one leg propped over the other, eyes wild with humor and teeth curved in a sharp white smile.

"Try not to faint this time," Moriarty hissed.

Sherlock could only stare. Was the dream- had it been real too? This was beyond the pale of even his imagination.

"How delicious you look when you're scared." Giving him a dirty look, Jim lifted his hand to his mouth and began to clean off his fingers with his skilled tongue. "And you do taste good! It's all that pineapple John fixes you for breakfast, isn't it? And you thought it was for your health!"

Transfixed, Sherlock stared at the semen coating his stomach. He felt a deep sense of shame creep over him. How could he be this futile, this wrecked? What had become of him?

"Oh, don't be so boring," Moriarty scoffed. "Come on, tell me how I did it."

"Light bending technology," Sherlock mumbled, the words tripping over each other in their haste to be free. "You've gotten hold of some form of advanced weapons-grade _trick_ which you correctly anticipated might frighten me, mainly due to my own fears of insanity and disgust for the paranormal. Such a cheap parlor trick, James, I am bored already with _you."_ He spat the last bit at his foe, lifting his eyes to glare in what he hoped was an effective manner.

James smiled at him. The sight was enough to make him queasy. "And the dream? Go on, impress me. What. Happened?"

Dragging himself off the couch, Sherlock staggered away from his enemy. He felt disgusted, rigid, like he had when he was violated. It was so mind-shatteringly clear now what had occurred in that mirrored room.

"Easy enough," he spat, glaring at the posh carpet between his toes. "It's CIA technology, isn't it, making a victim go mad by implanting sensations directly into the brain, using some type of electromagnetic frequency. Not really nice of you, not nice at all."

James clapped and whistled, clearly delighted. "Oh, good, good! You know how to make me proud of you, honey. I just wish I'd been able to keep that going a bit longer with you." He tittered. "Such fun, you know. And think about it. I could still drive you mad, even if you know what's going on, because nobody else _would believe you."_

"But you wouldn't," Sherlock ground out, bitterly, "because it's no good once I know what you're doing, is it? It's not much of a sporting game then. And you sport. You don't like to just torture your prey. That's your weakness too; you _do_ like everything to be clever, and neat."

"Isn't it, though?" James sounded positively thrilled with his own genius. He leapt up from the couch and paced around to stare Sherlock down. "I could torment you till you were a slave of pleasure, and you could never stop me. Wouldn't that be _neat? Clever?"_

"Not if I knew," Sherlock spat, unable to raise his eyes from the ground. James' shoes shuffled forward, impeccable, shined to the T. "You know how little my body means to me."

"So you wouldn't care," Moriarty whispered, dropping a hand to snake his fingers into Sherlock's. The softness of his touch made Sherlock blanch. "You wouldn't care, because you know that I own you."

Involuntary tears leaked down Sherlock's cheeks. How did Jim know? Or did he always know, know everything? His chest tightened, constricting. It was awful.

"Look at you," Moriarty moaned, orgasmically. His other hand traced down Sherlock's chest, disgustingly warm and gentle. "You're so... broken. I've broken your mind into tiny, little pieces, and you know it! You've been subverted. It's like you're dead."

"I'm not dead, you just own me. There's a difference." He couldn't handle it. He shut his eyes, again. If he opened them, he'd see how close the other man was; nearly pressed against his naked body.

"Well too bad," Moriarty said viciously. The fingers tightened to the point of pain around his and the hand upon his chest became a veritable claw, wrapping about his neck and choking inward. "There's absolutely no difference to me."

His mouth opened in protest, and nothing came out. He couldn't talk, not when his trachea was being pressed in a bruising grip. His eyes jerked open as Moriarty spun him rudely about and toppled him backward against the couch, both hands now wrapping his throat with ungentle force. It was incredibly distressing. He mustered a glare of mostly fear and grabbed the man's wrists, trying to wrench the hands away. But he couldn't. Weakness flooded his limbs. He was dying, _dying. Lack of air to the brain._

Moriarty's face had become deeply satiated. The mouth curved with a hint of a smile. His eyes shone with real pleasure and his lips and cheeks were darkened with elevated blood pulse. His fingers wrapped tighter around Sherlock's non-existent air supply.

Feeling his body elevate to a higher plane of existence was disturbing. He was now floating; bits of his consciousness were scattered about, but he was fixated on Moriarty's loving smile. He couldn't stop gazing at it. A feeling of euphoric satisfaction washed over him. The dark desire bleeding into him from those hands; it was intoxicating, more pleasurable than the hardest drugs or the most prolonged high. His hands, on Moriarty's iron wrists, turned to a limp embrace. Fighting back was not an option. He was sure his face reflected the most wanton lust and pain back at his murderer.

Grey crept in about the edges of his vision, obscuring Moriarty's lewd, burning eyes. He was simply dying, now; dying... and it was the most amazing experience of his life.

With a moment of finality, Sherlock Holmes lost his grip on sentience and floated into an abyss.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock slowly drifted awake. He was hyperventilating and staring at the periodic table, on the wall, in his own bedroom. Grey-green shades of dusk painted the ceiling in the most depressing tones imaginable.

The door was open. In the doorway stood John, his mouth awry with shock, and his eyes practically popping from his skull.

"What," Sherlock growsed, feeling deeply sleepy.

"You're- you're back," John stuttered. His mouth refused to do anything but hang agape.

"So what of it?" Sherlock growled. "Don't I live here? Why, pray tell, wouldn't I be here?"

John's eyes turned to a hollow glare and began to appraise him critically. "You've been gone for a week, Sherlock. _A fecking week."_

Realization began to crowd out the semblance of normality. A flash of sweat covered his body as he dug for the missing week in question. In his mind's eye, he could see Moriarty riding him, eyes wild and hands throttling him. Had he actually fucked James Moriarty? Or was it a dream? Perspiration beaded on his lip. He tore out of bed, wildly enough, and crossed to his mirror.

Mirror, mirror on the wall. What had happened to him? His mouth was bleeding and the fronts of his teeth were stained with dried blood. His hair looked perfectly done; each curl in place. That was definitely wrong. Something was off about that.

But his lack of shirt showed him the biggest surprise of all; a massive, deeply mottled bruise round his throat. He dug a nail into the skin and winced. Someone had tried to kill him. Either that, or James had in fact choked him. During _sex?_

"What happened?" Sherlock wheeled from the mirror, trying not to panic. And failing miserably. "I- I can't remember, John! I don't know what happened! Help!"

John's eyes sparkled brightly. It looked like he was crying. He turned his back and walked, resolutely, from the room, already dialing a number on his- no, wait, that wasn't his phone at all. It was Sherlock's.

"Mycroft?" John's voice was clipped. "He's back. And he doesn't remember anything. He's a bit banged up, more than what I did. No. He's got massive choke marks all over his neck. No, I didn't choke him!" John's voice was heated, with emotion apparently. "You can come and see for yourself, then, if you don't believe me!"

Rushing over to the bed, Sherlock sniffed his sheets for a scent of an intruder, anything. There was nothing. He smelled John; lots of John, all over those sheets. John never touched his bed. Conclusion: John had put him in his bed.

Confused, Sherlock turned to the mirror again. He was wearing his black silk boxers, only. Where in hell's bells had every other single item of raiment gone?

"John!" Sherlock shouted, blundering down the hall after the smaller man. "Where is my coat? Where is the Belstaff? I know I was wearing it- before, before! Where have you put it?"

John was in the sitting room, on the couch, glowering in the dusk. His eyes looked hard, like flint. He didn't look up as Sherlock burst into the room. No, the Belstaff was _not_ on the coat tree. Why was the entire room in disarray? There'd been a fight; a massive one.

Sherlock stopped mid-rant and stared at John levelly, a suspicion forming in the back of his mind. A sensory memory of John's hand wrapped about his neck was making him positively gag.

There. On that very couch, he'd been kept against his will, held down- by John. By the _neck._


	10. Chapter 10

Analysis of his memories, even with Mycroft's help, had proved futile. Sherlock sat motionless in his bed, straining to hold back a sob. He wasn't bothering to hold back tears, but actually making noise could be dangerous. All evidence pointed to John. And John was still here, as Sherlock could not bring himself to directly accuse him.

If John realized how broken Sherlock was, it could have disastrous results. Whatever the man had done to him, he was being eaten alive with guilt. One look in his eyes, one good look, was enough to make Sherlock cringe with both fear and repulsion for the man's own self-loathing.

Mycroft had subtlety suggested that it might not be too late for a rape test, with some other insinuation of repressed desires being the most dangerous variety. That was when Sherlock began to shout hysterically and had physically thrown Mycroft out of his room. He had not been raped. He had _not._ It was all a dream!

So what had John done? Locked him in a closet, knocked out on some sort of drug, for days, only to relent from completely killing him, after a fight? After- what?

Biting his lips, Sherlock gagged on bile. He could remember sensations of increasing pleasure, in a rather sickening way, and they had certainly happened on a couch. Then there was the clear memory of John's violent hand on his throat. Was there much question?

But it was all wrong. It hadn't, couldn't have happened!

This, coupled with John and Mycroft's boring version of the story, in which there was no hand on his cock, working him shamefully on a couch- was enough to make him hurl. He didn't believe John's account of them fighting and him sneaking away. It didn't jive with the obvious, which was that John had put him into bed and then lied about it. That much was clear. He'd never actually left.

So, whatever the utterly ridiculous bull was concerning a re-appearance by Moriarty, it looked far more like John had finally snapped under the strain of domestic life and become something nobody could possibly comprehend. Had their initial fight, indeed, been over Moriarty? Quite possibly. But when Sherlock asked to see the texts he'd been sent, they simply weren't there.

Missing evidence was not no evidence, but Sherlock felt cheated. Perhaps caged was the better word. He could barely believe he'd substituted James in his memory for John's rapacious actions toward him. Maybe it was all because he wished James was, in fact, still alive. Which he wasn't.

And of course, John would never be able to handle _that._

Groaning, Sherlock crossed to his dresser and dug out the pink phone. He plugged it in to turn it on and considered his next action. Whoever was currently impersonating James would likely not have any access to this device. But if James were still alive, he would certainly still keep it functional.

With a shudder, Sherlock typed out a line to the number titled 'IT' in contacts and hit send.

_Are you actually alive, or do you still owe me? -S.H._


	11. Chapter 11

There was no answer. Sherlock waited, in the dark, staring at the phone. He wondered if he'd picked the correct number. The message had gone through, but to no response. No one had read it; that much was clear. He scrolled feverishly through the other numbers programmed into the device, and finally sent the message to all 103 of them.

Some delivered, some did not; not a single one was read.

Feeling hatefully sad, Sherlock crawled back into bed and propped the device up against the pillow. He could barely handle the tightness in his chest. How had he become so wickedly tied in knots over a dead genius?

That was it, then. Moriarty was dead. He closed his eyes moments after the screen dimmed, and felt himself drifting.

Something started to move, in his dreams. His closet had opened. In the gloom, he felt rather than heard feet tread towards his bed. It was him. HE was there.

Snapping from the dream, Sherlock sat bolt upright in bed. Sometimes this happened, hallucinations of one's fears. Except-

No, no! He was standing there, over the bed. His pale face shone with a strange light in the inky darkness, every manic feature distinguishable.

Sherlock's breath froze in his chest. A hallucination. A left-over remnant of the dream. He should shut his eyes again, or pinch himself.

Moriarty's mouth curved into an evil smile. His breath was sharp, minty, like... like wintergreen. "No, you're not dreaming."

Sherlock screamed. He threw himself backward across the bed, away from his nemesis. Just in time to see Moriarty melt, fading into nothingness from the head down.

"God!" Sherlock howled. "Damn!"

Light flooded the room unexpectedly, with the addition of a panting John, standing at the door and holding onto the light switch for dear life. "What? Sherlock, calm down! What is going on?"

Collapsing back onto his pillows, Sherlock clutched his heart, which was racing badly. "Nothing! A goddamn dream, John! Good _night!"_

"Fine, have it your way," John growled, flicking the switch back off and storming down the hallway. He'd left the door ajar.

Just as Sherlock had begun to feel reasonably calm again, he felt a light touch on his face. Freezing, he stared upward. Nothing. Just a psychosomatic tick.

The finger-light touch brushed down onto his lips.

Transfixed, Sherlock struggled to keep from thrashing about. This was all in his head. He was overly wraught and far too tired.

A mouth. A mouth, on his, firmly pressing into it. He squeezed his eyes shut in abject horror. When he opened them, it was to see JAMES, James Moriarty, leaning into the kiss, and before he could expire with shock, the man had leapt onto him and wrapped a hand about his throat. Deepening the kiss, thrusting his tongue between Sherlock's open lips into his unresisting mouth. Impossible. But it had happened before! When- when? How?

James thrust his knee between Sherlock's legs and ground heavily into his crotch. Sparks shot up Sherlock's spinal column. It was all he could do not to groan heavily into the kiss. A deep layer of fog settled over his mind; James was cutting off the bloodflow to his brain _this time_ , his brain supplied. Helpful that everything came back _now._ Now, with The Spider choking and tongue-fucking him in his own bed. Very helpful, now.

If James' fingers were less precise, Sherlock may have been able to think more clearly, enumerate practical ways to get the man off of him. As it was, they cut into his main arteries with razor sharpness, effectively shutting down his brain. He was gagging and yet still able to suck in a few breaths. He half sobbed, half screamed into James' mouth, but it barely made a whisper.

"Do you really want him to see you like this?" Jim whispered wickedly, removing his mouth from Sherlock's. "I can leave you know. I don't need to fuck you, if you won't behave."

The light from the hall lit up Moriarty's ghostly white face in a terrifying way. It didn't even seem real.

"If you're a good boy," Moriarty snickered, "say yes, daddy, please fuck me..."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hate to say it but most of this chapter is based on personal experience. This is really what rapists sound like. (And it doesn't make it right even if the victim is confused or afraid to fight.) So much trauma from these kinds of experiences. So yeah, headcanon my own experiences as Sherlock's.

Moriarty's hand eased the pressure on his throat. His dark eyes needled Sherlock's expectantly. "Say it. Ask me."

Feeling uncomfortably drugged, Sherlock sucked the air in greedily. The hand on his neck was obscuring rational thought. He needed this, needed the man on top of him. That, in itself, was utterly wrong.

"No," Sherlock whispered, brokenly. "Please don't."

The fingers tightened. So did Jim's mouth, into a cruel line. "Really? Is that what you want? To be left alone- no, Sherlock. Don't tell me you want that. We both know what you want, you want me inside of you, fucking your heart out. You need me. And so I'm giving you a choice- a very easy choice!" The Spider's mouth could now barely contain its merriment. "Do you want to make this hard, or easy?"

His fingers unfurled, just a little, just enough for a response. But Sherlock couldn't. He was dying, passing out; reliving his death, the one he could barely recall, the one that felt like heaven. There was no place for speech when confronted with The Spider's hand on your neck, and his voice in your ear, promising hell and delivering heaven.

"Oh," Moriarty tittered, "how sweet, undyingly sweet of you, Sherlock! You're giving me what I want without even saying a word. Like a proper _slave."_

And then, before Sherlock knew it, he'd been deprived of his boxers, and the blanket, all at once, and Moriarty was undoing his zip- and drawing out a monstrously large cock. The thing was a nightmare. There was no way, literally, that thing was going inside of him. Tears leaked down his face.

"It isn't violation if you love it," his foe sing-songed, rocking the murderous implement up between Sherlock's cheeks. "I'll leave plenty of evidence for you, Sherlock. You can have me in court if you like for this. You can tell them you spoke three words of disinterest and then moaned like a baby, and see if they care. Because I'll leave you drenched, full of me. _Dripping."_

Sherlock's scream was entirely cut off by the man's hand on his throat as the _thing_ slammed inside of him. No preparation. He would be torn up internally if he didn't relax. He'd sustain _injury._

Relax. Stop resisting. Become a mindless body. There was no other choice.

"You know you love it," Moriarty laughed, breathlessly, thrusting hard. "You've never had anyone this large before. It might be painful now, but it won't be in a few years. I promise you'll get used to it, dear!"

Lifting his knees, Sherlock spasmed with un-heard sobs. He needed to ease the pain. He'd never realized what agony sex could be. This was demonic. Were Moriarty's hand not choking him out completely, he would be screaming bloody murder.

"Stop clenching up." Jim rolled his arse against him, almost experimentally. "You're making this way harder than it needs to be."

In the darkness, the dirty whispering seemed twice as filthy. The light illuminated James' face and ungodly, chiseled body over him. His shirt hung open and his eyes were wide with lust.

It was true, Sherlock _did_ want him. In precisely this way. Except now, he felt like he'd gladly fall from St. Barts if released for one second. Because no matter how much he _did_ want this, this was _not okay._

Sherlock felt himself loosening up rapidly. It hurt, knowing that he was being used like a whore. But it didn't stop him from responding like an animal would; he was getting an erection. Jim's eyes were glazing over as he pumped Sherlock's thighs. His hand wrapped, softly, around Sherlock's member, and then set a punishing pace.

"You're so pretty," Moriarty whispered, "when you cry."

Sherlock came all over The Spider's hand, and then began to actually _weep,_ his over-sensitized nerve endings unable to handle the continued pummeling. There was no way he could take this!

"Oh, honey, we only just started for the night."

"But John," he managed to rasp. John will hear. He'll save me.

"Na," Moriarty sneered. "He's dead."

Freezing, Sherlock spasmodically wrenched himself, and Jim, up against his headboard. His hands went to the ones throttling him and dragged them away, for just one, beautiful second. Enough to scream. Piercingly.

"JOHN!"

His cry echoed down the empty hall as Jim's hands closed in again, cutting him off. Reverberations sounded for a moment or two. But there was no answer; which could mean three things, either Moriarty was telling the truth, or John was drugged, unconscious, or not there.


	13. Chapter 13

"What would poor little Johnny think," Moriarty inquired, grinning toothily, "if he could see how you're moaning for me, like a wanton whore? He's all bled out, lying in the other room. Never even got to his bed. I slit..." his voice turned sharp, "his throat."

Having abandoned any hope of rescue several hours previously, Sherlock was now lying half off the bed. A razor edged, bloody knife was pressed to _his_ own throat, which was also the only thing keeping him from biting off- or into, he'd never manage to actually bite it off, too big- the cock that was engorging his entire throat.

Every time Moriarty thrust into his slack mouth, he felt the tip of the man's penis gouge what he presumed to be his adam's apple. He'd been gagging for quite some time now. Sweat and tears stung in his eyes, mixed with a heady dose of the bile that dripped down his face from his distended mouth. Did people do this for fun? Was anyone so vile, or crazed?

"I can hear you thin-k-in-ng," Moriarty sang, giving a little extra energy to his next thrust. The knife see-sawed back and forth over his adam's apple. "Just enjoy the experience. You and I, Sherlock. We were made for each other. Stop fighting, just _lose_ already."

Or what, or I'll die? You'll kill me? Phenomenal. Hurry up.

Sherlock savagely considered the cons of initiating his demise by attempting to chew up his foe's genitals. Perhaps not the smartest way to die.

"Certainly not," Jim snickered. "Imagine dying with my cock in your mouth. I'd make sure you were buried with it. Did you know the ancient Greeks cut the fingers and toes off corpses to keep them from retaliating against their murderers post-mortem? I'd do you the honor. But pre-mortem."

Abandoning rational thought, Sherlock considered what he'd look like without his appendages. A deep shudder overcame him at the mental image. It was abominable. He wondered if he'd die of the shock and anguish part-way through such a brutal procedure.

"You don't really want to join little Johnny boy, do you?"

Not a question that particularly required an answer.

Jim orgasmed down his throat, with a cry of near-relief. He pulled out slowly, cupping Sherlock's head in his hand. The semen now awash in his mouth tasted better than the contents of his empty stomach had.

"You'll learn, never fear," Jim crooned, lapping into Sherlock's empty mouth with his tongue. Tasting himself swimming in the man's saliva. Then it became aggressive, because nothing could ever be easy, and Sherlock felt his mind spinning under the ingress. He could nearly hear the man's thoughts from this range. Every emotion, leaching through that clever, clever tongue, satiating his darkest desires. He was groaning, and he didn't care. Compared to what went before, this was heaven.

Moriarty's grip suddenly turned treacherously tight. The knife slid over an artery and turned ever so slightly, angling inward, snagging the skin. He was still mouth fucking the detective.

Sherlock broke free of the kiss, and screamed bloody murder, certain the knife was about to slide home. Somebody would hear. _Wouldn't somebody hear?_


	14. Chapter 14

"That was very naughty of you, my sweet," Jim whispered, sensuously trailing his finger in a line down Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock was on his back, lying fully on the bed after a brief, vain struggle which had concluded with tears and stone-cold silence.

It was truly the damnedest thing. He could now barely move. A deep lethargy enveloped his limbs, dragging him down into a nauseating state of disregard for motion, action, energy. As though a lock, a paper-thin hologram, held him immobile. The key was somewhere; it was a mathematical combination, a number; a formula. But he couldn't find it, and he couldn't even have moved his lips. Jim continued to stroke his mouth.

Why am I exhausted, and what have you done with my willpower?

"Why do you think?" The finger currently probing his upper lip angled a nail under the sensitive lining and dragged, rudely, across it. The sensation felt like lightning. "The parts of your brain which demand inactivity, sleep, are not all that difficult to access, if you know what you're looking for. I've got a special map of your brain; it's pretty. And pretty dirty, too. But I don't need a _map_ to know how to push your buttons."

Panic welled up in his mind. It couldn't be true. He'd thought it a mere side-effect of the strangling, which was reasonable, or the man's affect on him, which was considerable; like a type of hypnotic awareness of one's death before it happened, much as a mouse might despair of escaping the cat. The idea that his own reactions might not be autonomous, however, was simply monstrous.

With a gasp he hadn't realized he'd been attempting, Sherlock crashed upward in bed. The frozen veneer of mental silence had broken beneath his hysteria. Moriarty had already backed away, and was sneering openly from the foot of the bed. "Ah, ah ah! And now you see its weakness! Panic!"

"Not a very strong effect," Sherlock snarled, dragging hands over his face. "It only works if the victim is already subdued and unlikely to muster enough mental force on their own to break it. Like a spell."

He felt his throat closing; an invisible member digging into it, blocking out air. He'd have screamed, but he couldn't; he was frozen in place, unable to twitch a muscle. Helpless against the wall.

"Oh," Moriarty frowned. "I forgot to mention that any sensation you experience can be played infinitely back for your repeated enjoyment, to infinity, or however long I like it to. Might mix it up with the real ones a bit! Wouldn't that just, be, _special?"_

Sherlock sucked air greedily through his nose, unable to stifle the ridiculous feeling that a cock had jammed down his throat.

How, _how?_ What do you have, electrodes in my brain stem?

"That would be telling," Jim said. "You've got enough to go on now."

"So I can relive my own rape," Sherlock managed to lisp. "Per- _fect."_

"Here you thought I cared about you," Jim snickered, strolling up to rejoin him. "Na, I just want you to experience a full range of fun times which can be utilized later on in our games. Not to mention leaving you useless and broken, like a bird that took a dive from the nest too early and snapped its wings. You tried to fly into the sun, Sherly, but you melted on the way."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay guys! It wasn't even writers block. I just was super busy.

Jim was gone. Sherlock had no idea how long he'd lain there, in a trance; his neck was bleeding in many shallow slices from the sharp edge of the knife; a fitting byproduct of his time with The Spider, he thought bitterly. Like an advanced form of papercut, but twice as _irritating_. The stinging was dulled only by the sharp pain of his internal anal muscles, which had faded to a boringly steady type of agony.

He didn't want to think about why, precisely, it hurt so badly. Maybe he had been torn despite his best efforts to surrender, to not tense and flinch and fight. Either way, there was blood; and blood, leaking from one's intestinal tract, was never a good sign.

If he'd been torn, he'd have to go to the hospital. He'd be _seen_ like this.

Sherlock felt he was about to die, of mortification most likely, or whatever sight he'd be met with once he dared to leave his room.

John could not be dead. He'd left, or been drugged; any moment now, his feet would sound. He'd come dashing out of his room, or up the hall; he'd come in-

No, no no. John would NOT see him like this. The very _idea!_

Sherlock's eyes stung with fresh tears. The layers of bile and cum had made his eyes ache and swell. If he looked in a mirror he'd likely retch.

If dawn came, if Mycroft came, if John hadn't had his phone _before_ \- he knew he'd be in the clear. And yet his bedside clock still read 2:34pm, which he knew without even bothering to look. He had hours. 

Twisting his mouth into a knot of misery, Sherlock willed himself to get up. He fell, lopsidedly, the moment he stood, spilling his length on the floor. He gasped. Precisely when had his legs become jelly?

"John." His voice rang down the hall, echoing hollowly. He simply knew the other man would hear him. Wherever he was. 

"John!" 

Nothing, nothing.

Dragging himself forward by his hands, Sherlock struggled to merely make it to his door. His heart was racing, unsteadily. If he had a heart attack before he found out what had become of John, he'd positively die. Maybe that would be for the best. Maybe he should simply _expire,_ here, partway out his door; in the most perfectly sordid crime scene he could possibly imagine.


	16. Chapter 16

He was in the hall, now, his ragged breathing sounding like a chant in his own ears. The nightlight emitted a weird greenish glow. It was not like he could reach the switch. He needed to; because there, in John's room, there was something dark on the floor. A body. That could only be John. Sherlock was simply staring from the door; he couldn't move into the room. He was unable to muster the willpower. And this time, there was no doubt of his reaction's autonomy. Because there was no mistake. The room reeked of the iron, visceral scent of fresh blood.

It was simply not possible. John could absolutely, never, not be- 

He was aware that he was weeping. But he didn't stop; and he felt no shame. His inner core rocked with the sobs, contracting in pure anguish.

"John, John." He sagged against the doorframe, collapsing into the room and covering his eyes with severely shaking hands. "Don't. Don't be- dead. Please. Please John."

Directly ahead of him on the floor, his phone lit up, like a bloody beacon- in a veritable lake of blood. Its spontaneous flashlight setting illuminated the room. Just beyond it, John was sprawled, his head twisted at an ungainly angle and his throat sliced clean open. His frozen face grimaced wildly at Sherlock.

Sherlock gaped open mouthed, nearly mimicking John's last expression. He could not, would not believe it. Utterly wrong. This was a dream. Another dream. He'd wake up.

"It's not nice of me," a voice whispered, sinister, from the darkness beyond John's bed. "You're so embarrassed you've failed, that Johnny boy was actually dead! You thought-" Eyes glinted in the dark, emerging from the veil of shadow- "that I was ly- _ing!"_

 __Sherlock's heart positively thudded into his mouth. He crashed forward, ungainly, into the blood; it was in his mouth, sickly sweet, like acid.


	17. Chapter 17

"That's the third time," Moriarty sneered, "that you've tasted Johnny's blood. Remember the first two?" His foot ground Sherlock's face back into the sticky, cold substance, voice raising to a fevered pitch, then shout. "No? What a loss! Seriously! Try and keep up!"

Fourth, because Sherlock had once gotten John's most precious of substances on his lip once; and this was, in fact, John's blood- just like that was, in fact, John Hamish Watson, simply garroted by a monster in the dark that even John could not have predicted; it would have been too late to fight once the master blow had felled the mighty. John's smell, John's taste, and out of the corner of his eye, silhouetted in the ghastly white iPhone light, John.

Dead. Time of expiry? Likely two or three hours ago. Moriarty had not lied. He had made quick work of John directly after the man's episode with the light switch and Sherlock's boudoir. The man moved like a shadow and made zero stir, like any true predator.

It was John. The soft folds of his face were nearly translucent in the stark light; forever frozen in a twisted expression of pain. Those deadly, meaningful blue eyes; still open, each blond lash illuminated. If Sherlock could reach back in time, he'd have comforted John in his dying moments.

"It's alright," Sherlock was saying, his voice an hysteric admixture of forcible empathy and desperation. "John, John listen to me! It was our time to die, John. It's going to be alright. John, focus."

He felt strong hands grip his waist, drag him up. Backwards, out of the room. "You're babbling," Moriarty drawled, cupping a palm over his mouth. His words drowned.

If I could have- if when Moriarty leapt onto me first- would there still have been time, he would have been sentient!

No, no! If I'd remembered at all! I'd have known he was actually there, I'd have seen through the trick! I'd have protected John, kept him close to me. I'd have died first.

"Be quiet, your incoherence is frustrating," the Spider snarled. Green light bathed the face over him as the man dragged him bodily down the hallway. And into the darkened bathroom. "Are you really broken, Sherlock? Is the toy malfunctioning _yet?"_

He fingered Sherlock's face in the pitch blackness, slipping his digits into his mouth. Then hauled him up to lean over the sinkwell, hand tangled up in his curls; massive boner pressing into the curve of his naked arse. _Precisely like John._

Sherlock snapped. Letting loose a curdled scream, he thrashed forward. The mirror splintered to fragments beneath his right fist, showered him, in the dark. His bare legs dragged against Moriarty's, unable to summon the requisite strength to perform an intended move. Otherwise, they'd be lying in the floor amongst glass shards and his hands would be strangling all life from the other man's worthless corpse.

"Oh! Oh! You're so funny, what a _handful!"_

The light came on. The mirror was not even half-way gone; its warped, spider-webbed surface reflected every angle of Sherlock's face back in a different vein. It was barely possible to see himself. Everything was a blended, scattered mass of red. John's blood, still coating his face. Both his hands were nearly disfigured with cuts and welling with fresh, crimson tears.

Shaking as though in withdrawal, Sherlock tried to flex his fingers. It was as though he'd severed a tendon, or simply lost contact with the offending digits. No luck, then. He'd have thought himself _at least_ capable of stabbing his nemesis with a shard of glass.

"How lucky of me to procure such a sexy specimen of manhood for my evening fun." Moriarty's free hand rubbed his arse appreciatively. "I love when you bang _yourself_ up for me. So masochistic."

The hand in his hair yanked pointedly. He was now staring up at the mostly-unbroken segment of mirror directly into his captor's face, his neck stretched taut. A little wrench and he might even be able to break it. Moriarty's eyes took on a deadly quality and his mouth curled into an ingratiating smile. Never... _good..._ news.

"Round six??" Moriarty's cock twitched against him. _Bare_ cock, his mind supplied. Wearing trousers. Fly already open. When it happened: unsure.

Sherlock mouth formed words, but nothing made it past his lips. His throat was craned at far too awkward an angle, and he had apparently, additionally, lost the ability somehow. It didn't make sense. He ought to be able to at least talk.

"You can talk... you know." Moriarty's warm hand massaged deeply, now, burying its foremost digits in his hole. The scissoring motion was barely tolerable.

I'm struck dumb by your generosity.

"Johnny wanted to, you know," Jim crooned, hatefully stimulating his prostate. "Just... like... this! Right here. Don't you wish he'd been your first, love? He would have milked you, all over the counter! Right after accusing you of being GAY!"

The gasp stuck in his throat. He flailed, unable to get any slack. He could breath. But that was pointless, now.

"He still could." Moriarty's mouth twisted to a shadow of warmth. "Maybe I should give him a turn."

Freezing, Sherlock felt his entire body stiffen with shock. Pain lanced up his useless arm from his chest. A strangled groan emanated from his pinched vocal chords.


	18. Chapter 18

The Spider widened his eyes mockingly. "Oh! Oh, you wanna give necrophilia a try! I knew you'd come round."

Cruel disappointment washed over him and left his limbs heavier than lead.

"He's there." Moriarty whispered, dragging his mouth close to Sherlock's ear conspiratorially. "He's in the corner watching us. Watching how we _fuck."_

Sherlock wanted to die. A joke. Just jokes. He couldn't turn his head. Moriarty was making sure of that.

The mouth laved over his ear, hot and lascivious, as that massive, hot member filled him again. Pleasure and pain rippled through his tortured abdomen. And then, just as badly as he'd wanted John to screw him on this surface, Moriarty set a brutal pace.

"You're dying," Moriarty hissed, his teeth gritted in the mirror, his eyes aglow with ecstasy. "Sher- _lock_ Holmes is falling down! My _fair lad-y...!"_

 _That._ Was. When.

Moriarty swiveled his head to face the corner.

Down opposite the lav, in point of fact, sat John Watson. Throat slit to the bone, bloodied, mouth wrecked. Eyes dead; and definitely fixed on Sherlock's.

Falling, falling; he was _falling._

A sensation of weightlessness encompassed him. He'd died, apparently. Or he wouldn't be seeing how John looked at him. Such hateful, tender love; such disgust, and wrath. The man looked enraptured. There was no possible way that John was sitting in the corner, mouth awry, throat cut, and staring.

And yet.

"Are you dead?" Moriarty whispered sweetly, pumping his arse from behind. "Aren't you? NO! You're NOT! You're an idiot, Sherlock!"

Of course I'm not an idiot, you've killed me! I'm dead, I'm seeing things. I'm allowed to!

Moriarty's laughter rang off the walls. "Sherlock! Think! What am I? What am I?"

Sherlock stared at the hallowed body, brain racing. No. Not merely John. Two of John.

Lacking the mole. The mole. This John had it on the wrong side of his face. But it was human. It wasn't a mask. And it was absolutely John.

Moriarty dragged his face downward, into the sink, and began to run the water. He plunged Sherlock's features beneath the stream. "I'm the banshee, Sherly. Haven't you figured it out yet? Shall I tell you the story?"

No! No please, no more!

Inhaling through his nose and mouth in a panic, Sherlock discovered he was merely drinking water. Plentifully. Through his nasal passages.

"The elves," Moriarty's voice sang, distantly, "had the nasty little habit of stealing away humans! Now real humans don't just disappear. So they took care to leave a corpus of lifeless clay behind. What does that tell you?"

You cloned John. And killed them. I'm an idiot, and you've still won. Because you've still got him.

Sherlock was drowning. There was no air. There was absolutely, definitively, nothing.


	19. Next to Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! So, time to pick this fic back up again...

"No," Mycroft said, icily, his entire body expression of the disdain he clearly felt. "I do not have John, and that was not his blood. It was a wax doll, you dolt, not even the Americans have invented full human cloning processes as of yet. Whatever bull Moriarty was feeding you, you were clearly too compromised to notice that it was horse shit."

Untrue, unfair, definitely John. "But-"

"Now now," he chided, giving a thoroughly nasty little grin. "We have already investigated that. Suffice it to say, did you physically touch the doll? Unless you touched it you should have re-evaluated what you were seeing, as it, in fact, happened to be entirely fake."

A sudden bastion of hope leapt through Sherlock's ribcage, like a spear, and he sat up, ready to tear the cords from his arm and leap out of the hospital bed.

He's alive, John's alive, and I've got to save him!

"Ah, no. You shan't be going anywhere, I've got attendants watching your every move lest you be stolen from beneath my nose one more time. Suffice it to say, dear little brother, if you try to slip out of the window, bribe one of the attendants, or-"

"Shut up," Sherlock spat. "You somehow failed to notice me being viciously raped for quite literally hours despite a startling level of frankly quite invasive surveillance and you're telling me you don't have infiltrators among your ranks?"

Mycroft's mouth twisted itself into an absurd grimace. "Well, I'm here."

"Maybe you're the infiltrator yourself." Come to think of it, Mycroft hadn't done much despite the red alert of his person literally disappearing for an entire week. Why hadn't it been possible to track him down? 

"What do you want, a microchip?" Mycroft sneered. "If I may remind you, you literally threw me from your flat."

"A flat I'd been missing from for a week," Sherlock groused. "And you saw fit to suggest John, my loyal John Watson, had shut me in a broom closet and raped me and lied, instead of the very real fact that my adversary had stolen me away from below your very nose. Helpful!"

There was something there, now. A trapped, animalistic wildness glinting from Mycroft's eye. He shuddered and swallowed as though straining to speak. It looked very much like he was choking.

Choking. Since when did Mycroft have experience with choking?

It hit him hard, like a ton of bricks. Sherlock sagged in his bed. "You've been raped. He- Moriarty held you down and he choked you. When?"

Mycroft's eyes bulged. "No! What on earth?!"

"Then," he said, gritting his teeth, "what. Happened?"

A deep breath seemed to stabilize Mycroft's increasingly precarious perch in his visitors' chair. "It was... Consensual."

Sherlock felt a low growl escape him. His injured hands were compulsively shaking within their wrappings. 

"One cannot always win the games one plays, little brother. Especially if the devil is one's opponent."

"Be forthright. What happened?"


	20. Dance With The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for discussion of non-con.

"It was not recent," Mycroft said, giving all the impression in the world that he cared little. 

"It affected you."

"Not as much as this does now." His mouth shaped the words as though they were unpleasant.

Oh, I see. It was a game and you only played to keep me safe. Is that it! Is that right?

Sherlock realized he'd not spoken. He was staring open mouthed at his brother.

"We do what we must," Mycroft said, "when duty calls. Better to suffer indignity than watch another suffer the selfsame thing. Because then, you suffer twice; once the dread and shame of cowardice, and once the empathy of pain. It is easier to be responsible for one's own suffering than shoulder that of another."

"What? What did he do?" A cold fear had settled into the bottom of Sherlock's stomach.

"Your execution," Mycroft whispered, straining to get the words out, "or- a night together. It was unfortunate but it had to be done. You, of course, were blissfully unaware."

Where? Where was I?

A lump grew in his throat as Mycroft spoke on. "You were insensible, I'm not jesting, you were in a coffin below his bed at the time. You think John is the only one capable of missing time away from civilization? You did it for an entire month and never knew. Mummy and Daddy were gone frantic. I got a missive issuing a series of instructions if I ever wanted to see your face again attached to your body. Your survival was not guaranteed."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Sherlock gave in to sobs. They wracked his wounded torso like an iron lung.

He'd. never. known.

"But," Mycroft said, his face a ghastly shade of green, "I was... Rather good in bed. That was, as it turns out, what he wanted."

"Go," Sherlock said. "Go!!!"

He was screaming, screaming at the brother who'd saved him.

Face contorting in a sad ghost of a grin, Mycroft fled for the door.

As he heard it click, Sherlock saw the invisible line of a ripple in the air by the base of his bed. His scream became catatonic.

"NO MYCROFT NO HELP NO HELP ME CAN ANYONE HEAR-"

The line shifted in the air, like a watery phenomena. It was coming closer, it was coming to get him!

Fingers snapped around his neck and pinned him to the bed, severing his cry.

"Shhh," Moriarty whispered. "Hush now, baby, but don't fall asleep! Daddy wants you awake for this."


End file.
